"blacksmith" poems
At the beginning the oldest man sat on the corner
of the garden wall by the road under a vast
walnut tree known to have been there always
he came back in the afternoon to the cave of shade
in his broad black hat black jacket the striped gray
wool trousers once worn only to church in winter
with a cane on either side resting against the stones
he said when your legs have gone all you can do
is to sit this way and be useless I believe God
he said that is what I am doing I am thinking
and things come to me now when nobody else knows them
he was visited by the dazzling of accidents the boy
who caught his hand in the trip hammer and it came out
like cigarette paper the man with both crushed legs
dangling and the woman murdered and his father the blacksmith
forging the iron fence to put around the place
out on the bare slope where she had fallen I could never
be the smith my father was as he always told me
I was good enough you know but I never had
the taste needed for scythe blades sickles kitchen knives
we preferred to use carriage springs to make them from
in the forge outside the barn there and his were sought after
oh when he had sold all he took to the fair the others
could begin I still have the die for stamping the name
of the village in the blade at the end so you could be sure
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the art of poetry
like any art
produces better work
when writers are not only
erudite but also smart
the lovers' painful state
upon loss or desertion
is voiced much more impressively
with less dramatic flourish
and more of the grate
that finishes the sword
at the old blacksmith's fire
where the hot flame of our desire
thrown into water
with a defiant hiss
turns into deadly steel
ready to **** and ******
friend or foe or lover
in our desperate search
for exits from the mire
or take the unexpected loss
of victory that seemed so close
on a wild battlefield
when suddenly the hero's gallant steed
falls victim to a hostile archers shot
and its proud rider is reduced to shout
"A kingdom for a horse!"
rather than holding a long monologue
about the treachery of fate
in short
less is oft' more
and lets the readers fill the empty spaces
with their own images and graces
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
my spine curves towards you as if you were the sun's rays
and i am a meeble flower and i wouldn't wish it any other
way. people tell me that this love has it's own dictator, that
the gaps between my ribcage isn't supposed to be filled with
fire. it's like giving a child whiskey for the soul. this is a risk
i am willing to take onto myself. i heard that broken bones
grow back stronger, so the bones in my arms are in the
process of mending their broken state so for a little while
longer, i can blacksmith the areas that need to be fixed.
some days, i tend to worry about placing this fire back
into my heart but something tells me that this long journey
of let downs and over thinking almost constantly is like
summer vacation: it is finally over. as fall enters, everything
will fall back into place.
- kra
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
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The sun has barely risen.
The birds; already signing.
Today is the day I must forget the fact that you've been missing.
I am the queen, I do this on my own.
Never will a peasant tread near my royal throne.
My princess lost her father, but he would never lose his daughter.
We share an unbreakable bond, yours was temporary and weak like solder.
You melt away, never to be seen,
When the temperature rises; we could never be a team.
Send me the blacksmith, a real, strong man.
One who's not afraid to burn his hands.
Surely he'd know, I can heal his wounds.
How would you though? You left so soon.
To you, the queen will always be Mother.
You have no need for me, a more than significant other.
Today is the day I let it all go.
You'll never forget, that this is my show.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
Today heard I a train,
while I smoke my cigarette, I heard a train.
The rumbles came trundling over mossing steel street bars,
the hooves of an iron horse shattering glass floors-
pebbles bickering like stone woodpeckers on the grounds to come.
The wind shudders,
and apologizes for the frost on the leaves,
the cracks in the ground and the holes in the sky,
my cigarette part blur,
awkwardness so comfortable,
this plastic train i recreate,
moments in-between,
where we lay down to day-listen.
The kinsmen that forgot call blacksmith,
scared with his welded skin,
protection in battle,
drunken dichotomy,
a hero ***** dans l’amour.
As great the fall of king, the fall of next in line.
The only thing to have moved quicker with age, time.
Lest we forget, the blacksmith here reside;(unfinished)
While the angel hath walk,
with long grey and black web moth wings,
stalking its sleeping prey,
his eyes wide open back,
watching the angel pace,
infesting the air with despicable knots,
its dangerous to stare,
but a contest never started is a contest never won,
and into the eyes of hell the blacksmith hast stared-
to the foot of his bed.
Where a three headed dog flap its ice wings to keep hell cold.
These nights in particular had been an awful one, and again the tapping, again the train.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
The blacksmith
He sees what he wants and he approaches it
Strikes a deal with this item
And starts his work on it
'baby you are looking fat' he says, 'why don't you sign up at the nearest gym'
'baby, this make up is a bit much, why don't you cut down on it'
'baby, you should dress like this, I prefer mini skirts to long trousers'
'I don't think I like your friend, she makes me feel uncomfortable, stop talking to her'
He makes all this changes and more to his new item, looking now at the finished product, he detests the works of his own hands, but why, he created this, he made and shaped this item into his own liking, lo has he outgrown it?, like a little child, has he found a better thing to call toy?, like a blacksmith, he'd leave the works of his hands to attend to a new one....blacksmiths are not contented, they strive for perfection, the perfect sword, the perfect shield, the perfect girl.
Little do they know, to be perfect is to be contented.
Pray you don't come across a blacksmith :)
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
Commencement of goals
One build to forge many more -
Let the fire begin!
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
Far away in the castle,
Your revered echelon,
Your pure majestic skin,
And your untainted generous heart,
Have become the most appealing living things I've ever seen,
Royal blood and Highness' sweetheart,
But I'm just a wretched citizen,
Routinely as a blacksmith,
Single bread and rocking chair,
Destitution and poverty-stricken,
I have never been complaining the way the God treats me,
To me it is just enough to get to see your beauty and hearty at the same time,
The folks were saying that you are the descending angel,
Spreading your wings over the entire people's heart,
Sending the warmth with a hug,
Delivering the happiness with a deed,
They feel safe,
I feel safe too,
But feel sad a little,
For just because I'm a blacksmith.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
My chest was forged for your head to rest on
Made by a blacksmith with the best intentions
Your head seems light, made so by affection
Which grows each time I catch your faults
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 3:15 PM UTC
As a poet
I seek to give words
A form of sorts
I feel as though I am a blacksmith
The hammer a pen
The paper my anvil
Words the steel
Viciously shapeless at first
Once refined, beautifully curved
Tempered with my emotion
To form a crafted sword
Not meant to pierce flesh
But instead the soul
Surface can be of gilded gold
Ornate and pretty
A blade meant to dazzle and woo
I say this resolutely, absolutely
Because in the breath of a sentence
One can live forever
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
The cool winter air makes the grass sway like the ocean's waves.
Makes the limbs of trees, both young and old, dance fancifully without care of who's watching.
The brilliant sun, bold as it is, is shy this morn
Only peaking over the icy mountain tops.
The sky is as clear and beautiful as a newly forged glass sculpture.
As I turn around, I see my home,
The furnace still warm from yesterday's work
sits quietly in the center
The bellow, old with use
waits impatiently for it's next push
The anvil, stubborn with age
tightens it's muscles, prepared for the torment of the day
The mallet and hammer, young with ambition
remember the creations so recently forged with creativity
The ground is riddled with steel and coal
The grass here is burnt and covered with the now stagnant embers of the furnace
The walls are filled with the tools of my trade,
all made in this very place.
The day has begun.
I act with repetition as I have so many days and nights prior.
I lay fresh coals upon the furnace
I push the bellow with all my strength
The furnace begins to roar with vigor like a newly awoken bear
I pull new, unworked steel from the bin
Laying the steel upon the fire,
I can see the color change and shift rapidly
I prepare the hammer and mallet for use, and hear their excitement fill this place
Pulling the steel from the fire, I lay it upon the grouchy anvil.
Then I begin my work of creation.
Hammer meets steel,
sparks and embers fly,
steel morphs it's shape,
the day is now warm in this place.
For hours, this process continues
The furnace only grows warmer,
The bellow only grows more worn,
The anvil only tires with work,
The mallet and hammer only become more ecstatic.
Until the creation is complete.
The day is complete.
The wind has all but ceased.
The grass now as still as all the sleeping creatures.
The trees' festival is complete.
The air is now freezing.
The furnace is cooling again,
The bellow is at peace again,
The anvil is relaxed again,
The mallet and hammer are quiet again.
I sit here now, watching the sun retreat behind the lake.
It's setting as colorful as a painting.
My work today is done,
My tools are silent,
My creation is complete.
I too, can now bask in the serenity of the night.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
The withered gorse
gives a glint of her golden hue
amongst Winters cumular invitation,
whose ember leaves mire
neath the creaking boughs.
The forge in the village
with its hard working blacksmith
presides by mornings emerald gown
of aconites blithely swaying in the churchyard.
The dormant headlands'
silent yearnings jostles,
with the arcane wind ;
plying against the piebald sky,
whose tales refuse to ring hollow.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
It is not the city air that ignites the forge
It is the wind the that weaves through the souls of its people
It is the spark that lives in the artists heart.
And the Blacksmith, mighty Blacksmith.
Sets all into motion.
So I place my dreams upon the anvil.
Apprentice & Master ****** hammers as fire forges the heart.
Blacksmith, He who breathes the wind that flows through all righteous ambition.
The desire to create.
The desire to change.
City. It is good to be back.
The coals are burning.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
365
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door—
Red—is the Fire’s common tint—
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame’s conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil’s even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs—within—
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge—
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The dust will gather on beaten forge
which crafted hardened steel.
Even hardest blade it gorged,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
Rooted deep in township’s yore
with a trade of kings and conquest.
Upon him once relied your lore,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
Leathered hands, up night and day
with visage of steel and focus.
Sparks will reign and fly and spray,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
But when your steed wears down his hooves
or your gate-posts starts to splinter,
you’ll be found needing hardened grooves;
you won’t forget the Blacksmith.
For it is he who works all day
And keep the townsfolk working.
If you need hardship kept at bay,
Don’t forget the Blacksmith.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
I have longed to be like Jesus since the day I was reborn
With a heart formed by the Father, by His hands so strong and warm
For although my soul was perfect, this old heart had far to go
It was lofty and self serving; never broken, hard as stone
But the only way to change my heart was not to mold like clay
He must carve it with a chisel that would break the stone away
So pain became my teacher and its lessons I learned well
As every trial would test me with each wounding swing that fell
One day I asked my Father as He formed His shapeless art
"Where did You find that chisel, Lord, that breaks so hard my heart?"
He took me to a village, somewhere, long before my time
And showed me where a blacksmith, there, was working near his mine
The local king had ordered that some special spikes be made
To perform a certain service later on that ancient day
The smith stoked up his furnace till it singed his heavy beard
And the strikes that made his hammer ring were heard by every ear
Then he spun the massive whetstone, pressed each spike against its edge
And the sparks shot out like lightening as he sharpened up the ends
The spikes, still warm from grinding, then were gathered in a cloth
And delivered to the mountain with the prisoner and the cross
Instantly I understood just what he made them for
The chisels used to shape my heart first crucified my Lord
Now every stroke that life will bring I'll welcome like a prize
For every chip that falls away will make me more like Christ
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
The snowflake is castellated cold,
Of chill crenellations and turnings narrow.
Court of pie-powders and gray-skied brazier smoke,
Of inner mazework dimmed to ****** holes,
Or the hooded machicolations from tower spire
Of oily darkness and arrowslits of Greek fire.
—
The snowflake is Medieval reliquary,
The frozen skull of rain and blood clear of sin,
Wind-captive with its prayer of quiet
On quietest lips, close to wine and sacrament.
Or the chapel and its waxen paramours
Of incorrupt body and candlelight upon the moors.
—
The snowflake is the mighty frozen spark,
Fire-forged and ironwrought,
Under the eye of Hephaestus,
Blacksmith of sorrow’s wind.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 7:47 PM UTC
The hammer and anvil,
My tools of Creation,
Have yet to serve their full potential.
Every day, I wield them.
From the depths of my heart and soul,
I muster the strength to forge.
The strength is abundant,
But such strength is thunder
Without proper restraint.
The fault is not my loyal tools –
Certainly not –
It is my own.
It is my hands –
My frail, limp hands –
Hands that can hold a gentle rose
Or caress a snow-white cheek.
Strength is unneeded there.
I am safe among the fields,
Comforted by the embrace of the flowers.
Every evening, I took a tulip
And by the stem, plucked it.
O, the beauty!
The beauty I held in my hands!
The same hands of Promethean might
Could too hold a budding flower.
But Master scowled at me.
He punished me for my hands –
My weak, pathetic hands.
“You must be stronger,” he barks,
“Lift the hammer above your head,
And bring it down with might!
Stoke the fire! Keep it burning!
You must be stronger! Keep working!”
My hands would burn, but still I worked;
Master’s words rang in my skull.
And how they would redden and swell!
With every blow, I yearned for the embrace again
As my gears clicked together
And the machine slammed the anvil.
One evening prior, I fled to the fields
And tried to hide from Master.
While among the tulips, I plucked just one,
And the stem broke in two,
Graying and withering.
Now a corpse in my hand –
Hand of iron and lead –
It is without purpose.
I searched for others to place in its stead,
But all wilted in the iron grasp.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
Your old brown chair sits waiting for you
Here behind me as I write, thirty years after your death.
You, the quiet bachelor with the twinkling eyes
Smoking pipe and soft French voice.
Always Charlie’s second,
A good mechanic, but a better blacksmith.
When the police said you couldn’t drive anymore,
You went home and died of sadness.
Unable to leave home, you stayed.
I still remember the day
The ambulance screamed southward
As I played on Grandpa’s lawn.
It was you on your way out,
Going in style.
Published July 09, 20
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 3:15 PM UTC
Fire gave me life.
Out of the corners of my newborn eyes I could see him standing there.
My blacksmith.
My father.
My creator.
He made me, He aids me, He gives me my breath.
He takes me. He breaks me. And thus comes my death.
He has burned me down to make a new,
therefore fire took my life.
Though purposely, I am one of few,
Who has met an ending to strife.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
It's 10 pm and the heat just hit me
The AC is off but I couldn't be more happy
Touched my first palm tree and dipped my hand in the toilet
Grabbed a cab to the city, on the seat there was a death threat
For breakfast we had Bananas foster, po'boys and hash brown
When Amanda power walked I had to tell her to slow down
By the Mississipi river I drank a peach daquiri
The waitress wanted more tips and across the streets she chased me
Strippers gave me the finger, ****** begged for ******
We were stuck in traffic cause of the constant flash floods
In a Camaro and a Werewolf to creep with vampires and slaves
Talking about plantations by the old family graves
And you were so beautiful under that big oak tree
Even more in the rain outside that locked cemetery
On Bourbon street the homeboys were asking for hugs
And I gave away all my coins to some thugs
We ate jambalaya and fried green tomatoes
The ladies were halfnaked but no one called them hoes
In a blacksmith shop with no electricity
We drank Morgan and got wasted with some other swedes
Wherever we went we felt the smell of ****
From every balcony people were throwing beads
All the ***** sounds were drowned out by the air condition
On the floor Hoyt from True Blood was changing positions
Then Chris slept like a baby when the cockroach sang him lullabies
For some reason it made more sense than "bridge may ice"
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC